


Love of the Wild

by mudbloodmama



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: 1920s, Alfie gets the girl, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Another Shelby Sibling, Birmingham, Camden Town, F/M, Family Feuds, Fate, Fluff, Fortune Telling, Gangs, Guns, Love, Marriage, Peaky Blinders - Freeform, Romance, Smut, The distinction between bread and rum is not discussed, Unplanned Pregnancy, Violence, War, gypsies, races, star-crossed lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:26:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29914125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudbloodmama/pseuds/mudbloodmama
Summary: Alfie Solomons can't recall having one pure thing in his life. Everything, no matter how good it might have seemed, has never been pure. It isn't until one sunny day, on a drive back from Birmingham that the purest thing on Earth literally crashes into him and steals his breath and his sanity.He was intent on not having any further contact, on not indulging in any weaknesses, but it was kismet.It was fate, woven along a golden thread, and by a gypsy no less.A bloody gypsy named Griselda Shelby.
Relationships: Alfie Solomons/Original Female Character(s), Arthur Shelby/Linda Shelby, Esme Shelby/John Shelby, Tommy Shelby/Lizzie Stark
Comments: 7
Kudos: 44





	1. A Chance Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> Now, I know what you're thinking, "Omg, mudbloodmama, another Alfie/Shelby sister fic?"  
> Yes, my answer is yes.  
> Do you know when you just love a character so much, that you want so much more for them? That's me with Alfie.  
> And yeah, there are a ton of Alfie/Shelby sister fics out there, I know that, but it's what I imagine so it's what I write.  
> Let's see how Alfie handles some good old fashion wild gypsy love. 
> 
> Now, this story is not cannon-compliant. It will start around season 2, and everything that's happened before is the same, but that's where it ends. Now, to fulfill my vision, certain plot points from all seasons will be incorporated (albeit in a different way).  
> I really hope you enjoy this. Alfie is a great character and he needs some good love. We all know the Mad Baker, but I bring you the Soft Baker. 
> 
> Also, I'm not British, or Romani, so I'm trying here. Feel free to point out any things that can be better or more accurate! 
> 
> Enjoy!

_“OI, OLLIE! ARE YOU FUCKING LISTENING?”_

Ollie sighs as his fingers tighten around the steering wheel. In truth, he has been checked out of the conversation- as one-sided as it was- for about five minutes now. “Yeah, boss. I’m listening.

“Fucking gypsies, mate. Fucking Birmingham...whole place smells worse than fucking horse shite, yeah?” Alfie shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tries to take a deep breath of fresh air. He loses the fight when he realizes that the windows are rolled down, which isn’t unwarranted for such a hot day, but it’s not helping his blossoming headache. “Oi, Ollie! Roll those fucking windows up!”

“Yeah, boss. Right on it.”

Alfie takes another deep breath, relieved that the smell has dulled, but it does nothing to soothe the pain in his head. He knows that his upcoming migraine has nothing to do with the barely-there smell of Birmingham industrialism or his right-hand man’s ability to inadvertently fuck with him. The reason his head feels like it’s splitting in half has all to do with business and politics and messy situations he hates finding himself in. With one final grunt, he shuts his eyes and lets his head fall back. “Fucking gypsies, mate.”

Alfie Solomons, a man of more than enough words, can’t find any other ones to sum up just how fucking tired he is of Thomas _fucking_ Shelby. 

Sure, the Shelby’s and the Jews are in the middle of a tentative seize-fire when they had come up with a mutually beneficial arrangement. The Italians have been breathing down both of their necks, so it only seemed natural to join forces. Tommy has oh-so graciously provided Alfie with some fresh men for his bakery, and in turn, Alfie has promised to not kill him. It had been so simple but, as he should have predicted, nothing is simple when it comes to _fucking_ Peakys.

Around six months into their arrangement, things had been pleasantly peaceful. Tommy’s men came into work, put in their fair share of manual labor, and never complained. He had hated to admit the fact that the Peaky bastards weren’t too shabby as workers. 

However, that all took a turn for the worse when one of the Camden girls got herself up the duff by some Gentile fucker. Alfie had been furious and nearly killed the bastard until the expecting mother threw herself in between the dead man walking and the butt of Alfie's gun. Now, Alfie certainly isn’t a man who prides himself on hurting innocent, pregnant women, so he had granted the man mercy after making sure to beat his teeth in. 

That fuck up of a situation had led him straight into Small Heath with its shite-covered streets and oil-filled air. It was a glorious Sunday, and he had to spend it all in the belly of the gypsies. Alfie was in no way, shape, or form going to allow a nice Jewish girl- pregnant nonetheless- to remain unwed. He had driven out to Birmingham to break the news to a stupidly amused Tommy who had instantly agreed with the union.

It had been hard enough relinquishing his pride by taking in Tommy’s men to work at his bakery, but Shayna’s pregnancy had been a blow to the balls. 

“I just-” Alfie can’t hold his tongue, he’s never been good at it, especially when he’s royally pissed. “I have two simple rules, yeah, Ollie? What are those rules?”

“The distinction between bread and rum is not discussed.”

“And?”

“The Jewish women are off-limits.”

“The Jewish women are off _fucking_ limits! How hard is that to fucking follow?” Alfie growls as he pinches the bridge of his nose once again and stares out the window. Although he has complained enough about being in Birmingham, he hates to admit that the country has a certain level of appeal that Camden just doesn’t have. 

Once you drive out of Small Heath proper, it's fucking heaven. The wide-open spaces, the lush green grasses, and the hills that seem neverending are on another level of God's good work. But, since they are heaven-sent, they’re also haunting reminders of the life he can’t have. Sometimes, late at night, he'll think about the kind of peace that could lead him to a quiet part of the world where everyone could just fuck off and let him grow old. 

It sounds like a sweet kind of life, but he knows it’s not the life he’s earned. No, the Mad Baker had gotten quite of bit of blood on his hands after the Great War, and even after he had escaped the living nightmare, he had continued on that path. 

No, that peace, that slice of quiet joy- heaven- that isn’t made for a man like him. 

He goes to turn away from the window, to leave that young man’s dream behind, to bitch a little more about Tommy _fucking_ Shelby, but a blurry figure darting across the field draws his attention. 

“Ollie-”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence when he jerks out of his seat as something comes into contact with his car. The vehicle comes to a grinding halt, and Ollie’s out and moving before Alfie can so much as sit up straight. He jumps out as well, grabbing his cane to steady himself, and is greeted by the sight of a full-grown stallion rearing in front of them, neighing as if someone’s just branded its arse.

“For fuck’s sake!” Alfie shouts, pulling Ollie back by the collar of his shirt as the overeager young man draws his gun. “I don’t want to get myself shot by your wife if you get trampled on, yeah? Already have enough on my plate, don’t I? Get in the fucking car, leave the beast, let's get the fuck out of gypsy-land!”

The stallion, however, has a different idea. The horse is wild, untrained, feral, and its fright has made him unstable. He approaches both men, eager to unleash some of his pent-up anxious energy. Ollie’s just about ready to shoot it until a body blocks his path. It’s all a blur of black, white, and green until Alfie’s vision settles and he witnesses the sight before him. 

A young woman- he’s guessing no older than twenty- jumps at the horse, burying her hands into its tangled mane as she forces herself on top of it. The horse is bucking wildly, trying to get the uncomfortable pressure off his back, but the woman just holds on tighter. Her legs are wrapped around its flank as her small arms try and hold onto its shoulders. Dust, dirt, and mud are being flung in every direction as the young woman continues her fruitless task. Alfie’s debate on whether or not to assist her ends when the horse finally settles, not much, but just enough so the woman doesn't fear falling off. 

“Hush,” the girl whispers in its ear, paying no mind to the two bewildered men in front of her. “Hush, _rrajo_ . Everything’s alright. _Totul este în regulă_.”

Once the dust settles around them, Alfie’s breath is suddenly taken from him. Now that he can see clearly, he can see in no uncertain terms that the brave young woman who had thrown herself onto the back of a savage beast is utterly breathtaking. 

The first thing he takes in is the mess of curly black hair that reaches her lower back and is held dangerously together by a bright green scarf. Her profile is striking; a straight nose and plump lips that are brought together by vibrant blue eyes. She wears a dress that barely covers anything. It’s white and looks so soft and breakable, a contrast to the beast she’s managed to rein in. Its thin straps strain against her shoulders and the skirt rises up her thighs as her legs try to hold on for dear life. There’s a light sheen of sweat on her tan skin that’s accentuated by the sun’s warm rays. Despite her mud-covered bare feet and sweaty skin, she looks like the picture of delicateness.

“Miss! I’m sorry!”

A young boy is running toward them at full speed, a look of sheer panic on his face as he takes in the situation in front of him. He comes up from behind the wooden fence, his gangly legs having a difficult time hopping over. He’s waving his hands frantically as the saddle that’s draped over his shoulder threatens to slip.

“Miss!” he shouts, out of breath and pink in the face. “Miss, I’m sorry! I-”

“Are you mad? Were you trying to break him in?” the woman asks, running her fingers through the horse's mane as it weakly bucks. She's on the back of a wild horse, barefoot, barely covered, but her voice doesn't seem angry at all. Alfie can tell that there’s a hint of playfulness in her blue eyes that's completely unwarranted. “Willy, I told you to wait for me.” 

Willy blushes, his cheeks positively pink as he averts his eyes. “I-I’m sorry, miss. I just thought-”

“He’s a wild one, Willy,” the woman chastizes, shaking her head at him as she pats the side of the horse’s neck, but there’s still sweetness in her voice. “He’s the greenest mustang we have. He could knock that head off your skinny shoulders in a second if you let him.”

“I know…” the boy mumbles, his head hung down in what Alfie can tell is a childish shame, but the shame of being caught red-handed nonetheless. “I won’t do it again, promise.”

The woman’s eyes narrow at him for only a fraction of a second more, and then she flashes Willy a bright smile, a smile that lets Alfie know it’s a habit of hers- forgiveness. 

“It’s alright,” she says. Far too gracefully, she hops off the horse and walks over to the boy. She bends down so she’s at eye level with him and uses her forefinger to tilt his head up. “Now, run along then. I’ll be needing you when I head back.”

The boy who has been on the brink of tears looks like he’s just been handed a basket full of sweets. He’s bashful as she ruffles his blonde hair and wipes off a bit of dirt on his knees. “You aren’t going to tell Mr.-”

“No,” she says, standing up and spinning him by his shoulders. “I won’t tell him because there’s nothing to tell, got it? You just go back and do what you’re told, yeah?” The boy nods his head vigorously. He reaches his hand out to pass her the saddle but she shakes her head. “No, won’t be needing that, will I? Bandit's not going to want to ride like that, caged up like some common animal.”

Alfie watches the exchange with rampant attention and silence. Throughout the entire conversation, neither the woman nor the child bothers looking in his or Ollie’s direction. Alfie isn’t a man that’s used to being ignored or unseen, and it prickles at his already injured pride. 

“Oi!” he shouts, digging his walking stick into the dirty ground as he takes a few steps toward her. “The fuck was that?”

The woman whirls around, and for a second, there looks to be a bit of surprise on her face. Her blue eyes widen in a way that makes it seem as if she had no idea they were standing there. Despite his gruff tone and the snarl of his upper lip, the woman doesn’t seem at all fazed by him. Instead, she looks amused, and this for some reason annoys the living shit out of him. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, her fingers digging into the horse’s mane to keep it rooted to its place. “Didn’t mean to ignore you, did I? Just needed to get Bandit settled. Did he scare you?”

Alfie furrows his eyebrows and scoffs. “Scare me? No, love, don’t reckon he did. It’s a beauty, ‘innit? Scared the living piss out of my man though, that much is true.”

The woman turns to Ollie with an amused smile playing on her lips as she inspects his nervous figure. Ollie’s not much of a nature-oriented man, and Alfie reckons he hadn’t seen a horse until today. The woman must think the same because she stifles a laugh until her eyes zero in on the car. “Your car!”

Alfie looks over with disinterest, seeing for the first time the very obvious dent in his brand new car. “Hmm,” he grunts. "Yeah, well-"

“Willy fucking Kitchen. Doesn't listen to a single word I say, does he?" the woman groans, running a frustrated hand through her hair. "Let me make this up to you,” she pleads, her blue eyes wide and filled with a genuine apology. “My brothers will take care of it. They’ll fix it up all nice for you, I swear it.”

Alfie shakes his head, trying to burrow the laugh caught in his throat. Sure, the car is new, but Alfie's got dozens of them. It's about as special as one of Ollie's shites. He waves his hand dismissively. “Nah, love. Couldn’t put you out, now could I?”

“Put _me_ out? Didn’t think Bandit knocked the fucking sense out of you. You sure you're alright?”

Alfie blinks back at her, and he can practically hear Ollie’s shudder. It takes him by surprise that such a pretty lass has such a foul mouth. Despite his surprise, he finds himself shockingly pleased. He’s not used to being talked to like that. He’s snapped necks for far less. He feels a smile twitching under his mustache but holds it back. “Cheeky, are you, lass? What’s your name?”

The girl rolls her bottom lip into her mouth as she takes a step forward, extending her small hand to him. “Grissy.”

“The fuck kind of name is Grissy?” 

She laughs as if he hasn’t just insulted her. She brushes her curly hair away from her face and his eyes are trapped staring at her perfectly white teeth, too straight for anyone from these parts. “It’s short for Griselda. Mum was a fan of Chaucer, have you read him?”

Alfie grunts. “Eh.”

“Yeah, well, she’s a right cunt, isn’t she? Known for her patience and obedience? Mum thought it was a bloody laugh naming me after her. Amusing once you get to know me, really.”

“Once you get to know you,” he repeats with a deep frown. He finally reaches his hand out and to meet hers, startled by just how soft her skin is despite the callouses he feels on her palm. “Still a right fucking ugly name, Grissy. Not suited for a lass like you. I’m liking Griselda better, yeah?”

“‘Suppose it doesn’t matter,” she agrees, giving his hand a tight squeeze. “Do I get to know your name?”

Alfie chuckles- an actual proper chuckle- like some love-struck schoolboy. He brings his hand back and scratches his beard. “‘Suppose you do, it’s…” He doesn’t know what prompts him to trail off. He can see that Ollie’s giving him the side-eye, curious as to his unusual hesitancy. There’s something so pure about Griselda and her wild black hair, her dirty bare feet, her virgin-white dress, and the old green scarf that she’s using as some sort of headband. There’s something so innocent about their exchange. It’s kismet, really, them meeting on such a downright fucking terrible day. The timing of it all, her sweet smile amongst a pile of shite, is what forces him to give her a different name. “Alfred.”

Alfred. Not Alfie. Not Solomons. Just Alfred. 

Alfred can be a man who almost gets trampled by a horse and gets saved by a woman. Alfred can be a man who’s reasonably nice to young lasses who run barefoot across country roads. Alfred can, for just one fucking second, not be feared the way Alfie Solomons is. And that's what happens. Alfred doesn't scare the poor lass but makes her smile. Alfred makes her blue eyes light up and her dark lashes flutter. Alfred makes her day the way that Alfie can't.

"Pleasure," she says sweetly before turning to Ollie. “And you?”

“He don’t fucking matter, now does he? Go start the car, mate,” Alfie says, waving Ollie away. He clears his throat once the car gets started, but he hesitates when he goes to leave. There's something tugging at his gut that forces his feet to stay put and urges his cane deeper into the ground. He sucks in a deep breath, turning back to her as he scratches his jaw. “Said you’d take care of it, yeah?”

Her mouth opens, likely ready to spout some delightfully kind words, but the horse whines beside her and tries to get away from her grasp. She frowns at it, tugging it back into place before looking at Alfie again. “Maybe another day, yeah? Bandit’s getting a bit angsty. Need to take him for a bit of a ride before getting back.”

Alfie tries to push down the disappointment in his chest. It feels like some cruel bout of angina that threatens to overpower his sciatica. “Yeah, yeah, sounds about right, love. Maybe another day.” 

But Alfie knows there won’t be another day. He knows that the chances of running into her- or her horse- again are slim to none, seeing as though he doesn’t fancy driving back up to Birmingham unless there’s a gun to his head. He knows that this one innocent exchange is all he's going to have with her. He knows that this nice sliver of purity is fleeting. He stares at her for longer than socially acceptable, and she stares back. They're held like that for a quiet moment- her smile and his frown- until she speaks. 

“Help me up? Got a bit of leverage the first time around. Beast’s a bit too tall for me.” She says this with a devious twinkle in her eyes, her hands clasped in front of her as if waiting patiently for his cooperation. 

Alfie doesn’t do work like this. If anyone needed something done, he’d send Ollie or one of the boys out. He’s paid his fair share of dues in the past, trudging through shite in France, stacking barrels as a boy to make a few cents, but the fucking gypsy’s put some fucking spell on him. That's why he finds himself setting his cane down beside the car and willingly stepping forward. He stops right in front of her so their chests are almost touching. He’s trying to be intimidating, well not trying so much as he naturally is, but it’s not working. She doesn’t fearfully quiver under his gaze, nor does she shy away when his hands find her waist. 

The fabric is so flimsy under his fingers, easily tearable, too soft to be mounting a horse with. He lets his fingers linger there, testing the strength, memorizing how it feels. She's tiny, far too tiny, tiny enough that her head barely reaches his chest. He has to snort at her cheeky smile when he unwillingly lets out a groan as he lifts her up, tweaking his back a bit as he gets her high enough. No matter how much he wants to look, he preserves her decency as she swings one leg over the horse’s back, only catching a glimpse of something red hidden under her dress. 

As he steps back, he takes a moment to appreciate the sight before him. She’s so small, so delicate, precious really, and a bit ridiculous. She looks like a fucking Romani princess with the hair and the scarf and the ability to be a fucking horse whisperer and the power to make a man like Alfie Solomons pretend he wants to be someone else. 

“Thank you,” she sighs, leaning forward to rest her cheek against Bandit’s neck. “You’ll keep your word, yeah? Come by Small Heath and drop the car off? Joey runs the place. I’ll tell him to keep an eye out for you.”

“Yeah, love,” Alfie lies, picking up his cane as he tips his hat at her. “Another day, another time.”

She flashes him that bright smile and the sun seems to shine down at her. It’s more than likely God mocking him for being such a fucking sodomite, for not having one good pure thing in his life. God's mocking him by making her look like a fucking angel. 

She gives him one last beautiful laugh before taking off, her black hair billowing in the wind as she and the horse pursue their next adventure. He figures a woman like her is full of them, adventures. He drags his hand down his face with a deep chuckle, shaking his head as he climbs in the back seat. He relaxes as Ollie takes off, and admires the view once again, but this time his headache is gone. 

His eyes meet Ollie’s in the rearview mirror, and his faithful right-hand teasingly raises his eyebrows. “Fucking gypsies, yeah?”

“Yeah, mate,” Alfie agrees, clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to rid the feeling of her soft skin, her flimsy fabric, to no avail. “Fucking gypsies.”

  
  



	2. Tarot and Vodka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Griselda thinks over her chance encounter with 'Alfred' and struggles- yet again- with what it means to be a Shelby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! 
> 
> I hope y'all are having a spectacular day! I'm so happy at the positive reception so far! I don't think I've ever posted a story that has gotten this many comments/kudos/bookmarks so soon! I'm glad y'all are enjoying reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it (and I hope that shows)
> 
> Now, a little question from your friendly author, do y'all prefer long chapters or short chapters? 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this new chapter!

_ GRISELDA WALKS CHEERFULLY THROUGH THE STREETS OF SMALL HEATH.  _ The ride with Bandit had been lovely, sufficiently clearing her head, allowing her to forget all about the mess waiting for her back home. 

Earlier today, Polly had almost insisted on having her stay for a family meeting. Despite the union with the Jews- which she doesn’t care to know much about- the Italians are still lurking at every corner. It seems that becoming allies with the Mad Baker hasn't helped the situation, in truth, it's just made it worse. Add to that the fact that now there's a threat of the American mafia expressing interest in London, and all hell is breaking loose in the Shelby Company Limited. 

It’s not that Griselda hates the family business. She’s the youngest girl in a family of one of the most feared gangs, The Peaky Blinders. The name itself carries a tremendous amount of weight, and a legacy to live up to. She knows that she needs to hold herself to a certain standard around the public, but that doesn’t mean that her private life needs to be consumed by violence and politics. Occasionally she'll join in on meetings, express her interest, come up with interesting alternatives, but despite that, she keeps her participation limited. 

She had dismissed herself rather quickly this morning as her aunt tried to drag her back down to the family table. Everyone had been there: Tommy, Arthur, John, Esme, Finn, Michael, Johnny Dogs, and other loyal members of The Blinders. Griselda had claimed she needed some fresh air, some green grass, some sun on her skin, and Tommy had relented with a sly smirk. It was hard for him to deny the inner gypsy in her that demanded her time be spent outdoors in beautiful fields instead of inside in a smoke-filled room. 

As she walks down the streets of Small Heath, headed to their home, she considers herself lucky that she managed to get away so easily. It had been a lovely day, filled with lovely people, and a rather lovely surprise. She laughs over the fact that if she had been held back even a minute, her day would have been unrecognizable. 

She swings open the doors to the Betting House and is immediately assaulted by the typical shouts of men and rings of telephones. She navigates her way through the maze of burly men, ignoring the lingering glances they leave in her wake. She's never had any interest in the men that frequent her family's shop, or any men in Birmingham in general. The boys that her brothers continuously line up for her are filled with boring and drab candidates. All they want is to claim the youngest Shelby, to further themselves in Tommy's eyes, and they would never speak their true intentions in fear of razor blades in their eyes. 

She doesn't need nor want a man like that. She wants someone formidable, daunting, spectacular, someone like-

“Oi, Grissy!”

She turns with a smile as one of her brothers approaches her, slinging his arm around her shoulders as he chews on his toothpick. “Where you been at all day? Thought you were just going for a walk?”

“I got a bit caught up,” she admits with a shrug. “Took Bandit out for a ride.”

He leads her to the kitchen where the rest of the family is already seated. Aunt Polly is sitting beside Michael, gingerly running her fingers across his knuckles as she speaks into the telephone. Arthur is sitting on the chair, wincing when Finn brushes some of the dried blood off his knuckles, but he perks up immediately when he sees her. 

“Said you took Bandit out?” Arthur asks with a wry smirk. “I thought you were saving that for tomorrow.”

She narrows her eyes at him, sensing the tease in his voice. “Plans changed, brother.”

“Yeah, well, a boy nearly getting killed change things, wouldn’t it?”

Griselda smiles as Tommy enters the room, a cigarette perched in between his lips as he reads through the books. Tommy, being the solemn man he is, doesn’t bother looking up at her. He’s always been the most guarded of all the Shelbys. He doesn’t typically express any concern or anxiety with his words or with his eyes. No, he’s too smart for that, but Griselda’s smart too. Tommy doesn’t have many ticks or many blindspots. He has the perfect poker face, but the same can’t be said for his hands. 

She glances down at the fingers that hold the thin ledger, and she can see the faintest tremble. She sighs with a smile as she walks up to him and pecks his cheek, lingering for a moment to see the hidden smile on his lips. “Now, who told you about that?”

“Curly,” he states, finally meeting her eyes, their almost identical blue gazes meeting. “Saw Willy take him out earlier today.”

“What?” she shouts, shoving him back as her hands latch onto her hips. “You mean to say that Curly saw an eleven-year-old boy taking out the wildest mustang we have, and he didn’t do anything? Bandit could have killed him! Has he lost any more of his senses?”

Tommy shrugs, pinching his cigarette between his fingers as he lets out a slow drag. “He said that Bandit’s hooves were turning green, a sure sign that bad luck would be all around if he didn’t get out today.”

“Well, if  _ Curly _ says so,” she mutters. She notices that Johnny Dogs and his kin have entered the kitchen, all wearing their newsboy caps and coats, all sporting wolfish grins that can only mean the worst. “Where are you lot headed to?”

“Business,” John says, giving her a peck on the cheek. “Not that you would be interested in hearing about that.”

She rolls her eyes as Arthur takes his place with another kiss. “A smart thought from you, John? Esme must be thrilled.”

“Alright, alright,” Tommy says, waving his hands as John tries to initiate a session of fake wrestling with his sister. “We’ve got work to do, boys. Leave Grissy be and let’s go.”

The men all leave without another word, although John does take the time to flip her off as he goes. She shakes her head with an exasperated laugh, cursing that she has so many brothers and only one sister. Once all the men have left, she focuses on the reason she came home early instead of keeping Bandit out longer. She searches the room, her fingers brushing across the dusty surfaces. 

“Hey, Aunt Pol?” she calls over her shoulder, rummaging through the highest bookshelf as she hears her aunt hang up the phone. “Do me a favor?”

“Yeah? What is it, dear?” Polly looks up just as Griselda turns back around with a small black box in her hands. Polly stares at it for a fraction of a second before scoffing and looking down at the papers in her hand. “No, I’m really too busy for that.”

“Please, Aunt Pol,” Griselda begs, sitting across from her and shoving the box in between them. “Please?”

Polly shakes her head. “Grissy, no. If you want your fortune read so badly, go find Esme.”

“No, Pol. You know what a right cunt Esme is when she’s pregnant. She threw a shoe at my head when I told her that dress was too tight.”

“That’s because that was rude, dear.”

“No, it was the truth.”

“Go find one of the Lee girls. They’ll do it for a lock of your hair.”

“The Lee girls? I know they’re kin, but they’re bat-shite crazy! Remember when Eliana told John he’d have a wonderful time plucking virgin gardens and he ended up getting the clap?” Polly laughs at the memory of the poor boy walking around with his hands in his pants for an entire two weeks, and Griselda sees her opportunity to press a bit more. She opens the box and reveals the Tarot cards, pushing closer to her aunt. “Come on, Pol. You know you’re the best at them. You nearly always right!”

Polly stares at the cards and then at the papers beside her. Her eyes flicker back and forth before they settle on Griselda. With a sigh, she begins to gather the cards and lay them on the table. “Cheeky girl. It’s a right trouble saying no to you.”

“I know,” Griselda says cheerfully, leaning back in her seat as she watches her aunt skillfully arrange the cars. “Hurry up now. I swear you’re taking your time on purpose.”

“You know gypsies rarely use Tarot. Reading palms is more accurate,” she remarks, shuffling the cards before handing them to her. 

Griselda takes them, shuffling them herself before setting them down. “Yeah, well, you’re shite at that, so cards it is.”

“Alright, here we go.” Polly pulls the first card and places it between them. “Upright Death. That’s not bad.” She pulls another. “The Fool reversed. Well, that’s not much of a shock, you’ve always been reckless.” She pulls the final card before hesitating, glancing up at her niece with narrowed eyes. “What were you doing today?”

“Why?” Griselda asks, her eyes widening as she tries to take a peek at the card. Polly pulls it close to her chest before she can even catch a glance. “Come on, Pol! That’s not fair!”

“Answer me, girl,” Polly snaps. “Why’d you want me to do this today?”

Griselda sighs, unwilling to let her in on the exact reason. “None of your business, Pol. I felt a draft in the air. Now, get on with it, will you? What’s the last card?”

Polly scoffs, eyeing the card before slowly setting it down. “The Lovers. Upright. Should I tell you what this all means put together or can you put it together all on your own?”

“Maybe you had some sense earlier,” Griselda mumbles, crossing her arms over her chest. “I should have gotten Esme to do it. She doesn’t pry, you know? Let’s a woman have her peace with her fortunes.”

“You want peace with this fortune? And you expect your aunt not to pry?” she questions with a dry laugh, shaking her head. “You’re supposed to be the smart one, Grissy. The cards are telling me that you’ve met a boy recently and you’ve managed to catch his interest. Now, this wouldn’t be much of a surprise seeing as it’s you, but the cards are also telling me that this boy is trouble. Either he’s reckless, or he’s going to make you reckless. Recklessness, love, and new beginnings?”

Griselda smiles twirling a strand of her curls. “It sounds lovely, doesn’t it?”

Polly rolls her eyes with feigned disinterest. She quickly collects the card and places them in the box. She stares at Griselda for another moment, a silent contemplation in her eyes before she decides to reach for the vodka at the end of the table. She silently pours each of them a glass.

“Enough of the games, Grissy,” Polly snaps, and for a moment Griselda believes she’s in for a lot of trouble, seeing as her aunt doesn’t look like she’s in the mood to play. However, the second she takes a swig of the vodka, a wide smile breaks out on her face. It’s the smile of the young woman she once was, chatting with her friends about boys they fancied. “Now, who’s the boy?”

“I wouldn’t necessarily call him a boy…”

And Griselda can’t. The man she met earlier today is far from a boy. It had been a stroke of luck, a fated meeting, and she’s sure of this. Had Polly managed to wrangle her into staying for the family meeting, she would have never met him. If Curly hadn't seen Bandit's green hooves, he would never have been let out. 

When she had seen Bandit racing down the hill and toward the open road, she hadn’t bothered to check if there was a car coming at all. She had run, bolted, mounted the mustang without a second thought. She had been so frazzled when she realized that Willy was the one to let him out, that she hadn’t even paid any mind to the two men emerging from the car. But when she did, when she saw  _ him _ , something deep inside her had stirred. 

Alfred. That’s all she has, a name, a face, an encounter.

Alfred hadn’t seemed conventionally handsome, not at first glance. It wasn’t until she had taken a closer look after the dust had settled, that she saw him in all his glory. He was broad,  _ strong _ , built like a man that’s tailored for labor and hardship. His expression had been that of indifference- clenched fists, furrowed brows, snarling lips- but his eyes told a different story. They were blue one second and then green when the sun hit them at a certain angle. His eyes told the story of a man who was contemplating their encounter, sizing up the woman in front of him, coming up with thousands of conclusions. 

When he had spoken, his voice was rough, a sign that he yelled and did so frequently. His thick beard and mustache hid his lips, but she could have sworn to see just a fraction of a smile at one point. But then she had realized that Alfred couldn’t be a man that smiled often. The scar cutting across his cheek, the weathered lines around his eyes, the limp in his step, these aren’t signs of a man that finds much joy in life. 

“Grissy?”

“Yeah?” Griselda blushes as she catches Polly laughing at her. She must look like some doting school-girl working through a new crush. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Polly says, laughing as she takes another sip. “You must fancy him.”

Griselda shakes her head as she downs a full swig, wincing as the alcohol reaches her throat. “Christ! This shite is strong and no, I don’t fancy him. We barely even had a conversation. It was just nice meeting someone different for a change.”

“Different?”

“Yeah. I don’t think he’s from around here. He took Watery Lane in the middle of the day,” she explains, leaning forward to light the cigarette her aunt just shoved between her lips. “Everybody in Small Heath knows that you shouldn’t drive down Watery Lane unless it’s nighttime. It’s too close to the wild stables for that.”

“An outsider,” Polly says, suddenly back to being the serious aunt she was just seconds ago. “I don’t like this.”

“There’s nothing for you not to like. Bandit hit his car, and I told him the boys would take care of it for him, but I doubt he’s coming back.” She says these last words with a quick pang in her gut. She had only shared a few sentences with Alfred, but she can still recall the way his large hands had felt on her waist. There had been something about them that had made her feel secure, protected, safe. “It was just...it was a nice day, Pol. That’s all there is to it. There’s no need for a big fuss.”

Griselda goes to stand, suddenly feeling regret at asking her aunt to do this for her, knowing that she would be interrogated afterward. Polly, however, has a different idea. Her hand shoots out and forces Griselda back into the chair. 

“Ow,” Griselda whines, rubbing her soon-to-be red wrist. “You didn’t have to be so rough-”

“Listen to me, girl,” Polly says, pointing a finger straight at her face. “You’re to be careful with men these days. You’re a beautiful woman. You’re young and pretty and too wild for your own good. These men-”

“What men are you going on about?” Griselda snaps, trying to decide whether or not she’s furious or amused. “You do realize that there aren’t throngs of men at our doorstep, yeah? No one dares come too close in fear of Tommy and the boys, and the ones that do are too under his thumb to even consider.”

Polly smiles at this, almost as if she too plays a part in that. “Well, the boys around here aren’t good enough for you.”

“No one’s good enough!” Griselda shouts, pushing Polly’s finger away, being careful not to burn herself with the cigarette. “Ada went and got herself knocked up by Freddie Thorne. She married the man that saved Tommy’s fucking life and even he still wasn’t good enough for her. Tommy tried to control every ounce of her life and she finally had enough with it and took off!”

Polly’s eyes darken for just a moment. They don’t darken with rage or frustration but with regret and sadness. Griselda wishes she hadn’t spoken those last words. Ada’s departure, no matter how much time has passed, is still a sore subject amongst everyone. Griselda knows that Tommy sneaks into London every now and then to try and visit her. She knows that he bought the house she’s living in and that he sends money once a month. 

Griselda understands why Ada left, why she left with Karl, and hasn’t looked back since. Tommy, no matter how good his intentions are, is sometimes too overbearing for his own good. It’s been difficult for him to undo the blurred lines between business and family as if he somehow believes they’re inextricably linked. 

Griselda sometimes wonders what it would be like to follow in her older sister’s footsteps, to leave her life in Small Heath behind, and find a slice of peace for herself. Despite how beautiful that life seems- peace, quiet, escape- she knows she can never have it. It’s not that Ada doesn’t believe in family, it’s just that Griselda believes in it just a bit more. 

She can never leave Tommy nor the family, not in the way that Ada has. 

“I’m sorry, Pol,” Griselda whispers, falling to her knees as she reaches for Polly’s hands. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Polly smiles, but it’s tight and forced. “It’s alright, dear. Ada’s her own woman who can make her own choices. If she doesn’t care to have us in her life that’s on her.”

Griselda stills for a moment, hanging her head down between them. Polly’s words ring true. It’s the way Griselda likes to think of it as well. She wants to believe that Ada has betrayed them, has left them to rot back in Small Heath while she sits pretty in London with a snazzy new job and a different name. 

But that’s not the truth. 

“I should visit her,” she finally says, standing up and brushing her hand across the back of Polly’s head. “You should come with me, yeah? We can bring a toy for Karl? I think that sounds good.”

Polly smiles and Griselda knows that she has absolutely no intention of joining her. She knows that Polly’s pride is too strong to go traipsing around London in search of her niece’s attention. 

“That sounds good,” Polly lies, taking the final sip of her vodka. “But maybe another time.”

Griselda frowns, even though that’s the answer she had been expecting. She doesn’t say anything else as she takes her leave, grabbing a handful of bills so she can go to the toy shop across the way. 

On her walk, she thinks about the complete absurdity of time. What does it mean when someone says maybe another time? If the war has taught her anything, it’s that time is limited, it’s not infinite. She doesn’t have forever to wait for Polly to come around. She doesn't have forever to wait for Ada to forgive Tommy. She doesn’t have forever to wait for Alfred to show up. So, as she enters the toy shop and her fingers glide against the porcelain dolls and wooden trucks, she acknowledges that there will never be  _ another time  _ unless _she_ makes the time . 

  
  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So, what do we think?


End file.
